Gondolin

Imladris, winter morning, present day

A heavy, cold, icy veil of dread covered the fair city of Ondolinde, the sky colored steel grey barely let any sunlight in, clouds black as storm loomed ominously near, yet no sound of thunder could be heard. Even the wind stopped blowing and the Echoriath looked like jagged teeth of steel. The only gust of wind the people of Ondolinde felt all day had been Thorondor, the King of the Eagles bearing the body of High King Nolofinwe to them. He deposited their late King on a mountaintop overlooking the city, telling the tale of his bravery and recklessness to Turukano.

[OOC: A text-based RP session between Ningear (N) and Gloreloth (G).]

A Library in Gondolin

(N)

Some Elves are working quietly, the scratching of feathers on parchment can be heard. Every now and then a melodious voice speaks a few words and another answers. Laughter and song can be heard through the windows, depending on the direction of the wind.

As the early rays of the sun gently kissed the earth, illuminating the world with a soft golden hue, a sense of tranquility filled the air. The sky above was a canvas painted in hues of blue, adorned with wisps of cotton-like clouds that seemed to dance effortlessly.

Summer days rarely were as insufferable as winter days in the fair city of Ondolinde, but they still happened. Particularly that day, where Anar hit the city with the brightest rays seen that year, and for once the winds decided to blow in the opposite direction from the valley, making it worse. It was unusual and Sinilatamo wished he had remained in the cool confines of his house. Instead, he let his betrothed drag him for a stroll, as she claimed that he would otherwise become "lethargic".

Arradril worked alone, as she normally preferred. Tonight's project was a sheath for her favorite boot dagger. The single-edged weapon was not her largest, nor her longest, nor yet was it her oldest -- so it was no painful reminder of fair Ondolindë. It was not even balanced for throwing; given the alarming upward curve of the blade, and the solid hiltward weighting, Arradril reckoned that any attempt to fling it would end in a loud thud.

Hammers smite the anvils. White-hot forge fires roar. Cool waters sizzle in anger whenever they come in contact with next glowing piece of great Ñoldorin craftsmanship. Both Elves present have always loved this music of creation far more than any song that is sung up in the halls of light and white marble.

The master of this workplace dunks his creation, the head of a pick-axe, into the water. He leaves it at the bottom of the bucket and doesn't take it out, even when the clouds of steam have subsided.

The other lowers her hammer. "What is it, Lord?"